


It Had To Be Ewe

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:32:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I have been to every country that raises sheep, asking the same question, and it has led me here.”</i> Crack AU in which John is a sheep farmer and Sherlock is nuts. Well, okay, maybe that bit isn't so AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Had To Be Ewe

**Author's Note:**

> Yesterday, I read the sentence, "Guinness World Records said that...it had been actively looking for a contender for world's oldest living sheep," (in [this news story](http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-highlands-islands-17182541)) and it lead me here. I'm just going to blame Earlgreytea68 for this entire thing (the title is also hers).

The first thing John noticed about the man at the door was his intense and mildly-crazed stare, because it was hard to avoid those eyes when they were looking at you like that. The second was that he was ridiculously hot, in an outlandish, I'm-secretly-a-nutjob way. The third was just how unsuitable his shoes were for tramping down the dirt track that led to John's farm.

“I have travelled the world for three years,” announced the man without bothering to introduce himself. “I have been to every country that raises sheep, asking the same question, and it has led me here.”

Not-so-secretly a nutjob, then.

“Ah,” said John, not sure how to reply to that. “Good for you?” he offered.

The man looked, if anything, more crazed at that. John began to wonder how subtly he could reach for his gun. “A man with extraordinarily bad personal hygiene and a far too intimate relationship with his pigs assured me that you were the man I needed,” said the man. 

John searched through his mental list of acquaintances but that description fitted far too many of them. Perhaps it was time for some more acquaintances, he thought.

“Right,” he said. “Um. What for? And who are you?”

The man drew himself to his full height. Flash bastard, as if height meant anything. John was willing to bet he could still have him on his back, begging for mercy, before he even knew what was going on. The thought triggered a series of interesting mental images which John put aside to explore fully later.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said the man. “I am here for your sheep.”

“My sheep?” asked John, and screw subtle, this bastard wasn't getting anywhere near his sheep if he had anything to do with it. He pulled his gun out of the drawer he kept it in.

Sherlock tracked his movement, then tipped his head to one side. “Curious, most farmers have either rifles or shotguns,” he said. “I have a great deal of experience with being threatened by them.”

“Can't imagine why, if you're going around after their sheep,” said John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in a way so dramatic and overdone that for a moment John thought he was talking to a teenage girl. “I'm not interested in harming your animals,” he said. “I merely want to know their ages.”

John was not reassured, and did not put his gun away. “Their ages,” he repeated.

“Of course their ages,” said Sherlock. He reached into his coat pocket, and John automatically took the safety catch off his gun. Sherlock froze.

“Trained reflexes,” he said. “Handgun rather than the more conventional type of firearm.” He looked John over. “Oh, obvious, of course. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“What?” asked John. “Ah, Afghanistan. Did the pig man tell you that as well?”

“Of course not,” said Sherlock. “It's obvious. Look, I don't have a weapon, I just want to show you my I.D.”

John put the safety back on his gun. “Go on, then,” he said.

Sherlock pulled out his wallet and flicked through it for a card that he handed to John.

 _Guinness World Records Official Researcher_ , it said.

“The name on here is Gregory Lestrade,” John pointed out after examining it. “And the photo clearly isn't you.”

Sherlock sighed as if those were petty details. “Mine was taking too long to be processed and I was in a hurry to start on my assignment, so I stole Lestrade's.”

“Your assignment,” repeated John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, snatching the card away from John and tucking it away again. “I am looking for the oldest sheep in the world.”

“That's an actual job?” asked John incredulously.

Sherlock glared at him. “It's more of a job than watching a field full of ovines eat grass.”

“Not making me any more eager to help you,” said John.

Sherlock made a face, glanced away, then gritted his jaw. “I am sure that sheep farming is a proud and honourable profession,” he said, spitting the words out. “Clearly, it is far more worthy of your time than either being a soldier or a doctor were.”

John's eyes narrowed. “How did you-?”

“Oh, dull,” said Sherlock. “Could we please move on to your sheep?”

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Oh, fine,” he said. “You'll want to see Mrs. Hudson. She's the oldest.”

Sherlock perked up. “How old is she? Can you prove it?”

“She's twenty-six,” said John, reaching for his coat. “And yes, we have a record of her birth.”

Sherlock looked as if he'd been struck by a lightening bolt of pure glee. “Twenty-six!” he repeated. “Oh, that's brilliant! It's like Christmas! Take me to her!”

“She's in the far field,” said John. “Do you want to borrow some boots?”

“No, no,” said Sherlock. “These will be fine. Let's go!”

He grabbed John's sleeve and pulled him out of the door so fast that John barely had time to close it behind him.

Within five minutes, Sherlock's shoes were coated with mud. It took John another ten minutes to realise that not only had he left his cane behind, but that he didn't seem to need it as he followed after Sherlock's excited stride. That was interesting.

In fact, this whole thing was interesting, in a way that nothing else had been since he'd left the Army and ended up running the old family farm in the wake of Harry's divorce and subsequent descent into alcoholism. Sherlock was bouncing along as if they were on their way to discover a new country, his coat swirling dramatically around him even as his shoes sunk further and further into the mud. He really was unfairly hot for a man apparently obsessed with geriatric farm animals. 

John was willing to bet he had a magnificent arse under that coat. He found himself plotting ways to get a look at it – it would only be polite to offer him tea once they were done with Mrs. Hudson, surely? And no one kept their coat on for tea. And maybe he could knock something on the floor, purely by accident of course, and John's war wound would, of course, keep him from being able to pick it up, so Sherlock would have to bend over, and-

John was still following this line of thought, which had led to some very interesting places, when they finally found Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock circled her three times, muttering to himself under his breath while Mrs. Hudson gave him a baleful look.

“And you're sure she's twenty-six,” he said.

“She was born November 1983,” replied John.

Sherlock straightened up from crouching to inspect her hooves, and gave John a wide grin. “Fantastic!” he announced, then grabbed John's face and planted a kiss right on his lips before whirling away, pulling his phone out.

John froze in place for a moment, then cleared his throat. “We've got a duck that's pretty old as well,” he said.

“Not interested in ducks,” said Sherlock, not looking up from his phone. Well, it had been worth a try. Sherlock started taking pictures of Mrs. Hudson, circling her to get every angle. The look she was giving him became even more irritated, as if to say, _I'm your sheep, not your supermodel._

“I'll need to see your documentation,” said Sherlock, not looking up from his phone. “Then I'll have to contact Mycroft and let him know I've succeeded. After that, we can have sex.”

John blinked. “Ah, good,” he said in a hoarse tone of voice. Sherlock glanced up from his phone long enough to beam at him, than returned to documenting the existence of Mrs. Hudson.

This was shaping up to be a really good day, thought John.


End file.
